


An Emperor and his Heirs

by Frosted-Soil (Jackson_Overland_Frost)



Series: Don't Mess With Me (I'll Shoot You Down) aka Emperor Tommyinnit-verse [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Antarctic Empire, Character Study, Emperor Philza Minecraft, Gen, I still think it’s pretty wack that AO3 doesn’t have a platonic clingyduo tag, POV Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Prince Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Prince Toby Smith | Tubbo, Prince TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Prince Wilbur Soot, Rivalstwt sir. Your food., Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), That’s wack right, TommyInnit Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), can stand alone, is Phil a bad father? Let’s discuss, sorta - Freeform, the voices are chat, they all hear the fucking voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackson_Overland_Frost/pseuds/Frosted-Soil
Summary: Philza had never been an emperor at heart, but as much as he simply wanted to fly away, he had a responsibility to lead, and to find someone to lead after him.Or: Phil and his adopted sons
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Don't Mess With Me (I'll Shoot You Down) aka Emperor Tommyinnit-verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142999
Comments: 14
Kudos: 309





	1. The Emperor

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao the voices sent me into a fugue state and I wrote/edited this entire thing in one night before passing out. Please enjoy <3

Philza was an adventurer at heart, really. A survivor. He wasn’t used to extravagant palaces and galas full of well-dressed strangers, however diplomatic those strangers were. For most of his life he had lived in small shelters and cottages that he built himself, staying for a few months at most before moving on. It wasn’t that he couldn’t speak to people — he could, and well, had practiced for years influencing the voices in his head. He could fight too, could protect, could _lead_. But leading came with a price, and the price was extravagant palaces, galas full of well-dressed strangers, foreign luxuries, and the weight of a nation on his shoulders. Phil wasn’t used to such a heavy weight. He was used to flying. 

As emperor of the Antarctic Empire, Phil couldn’t exactly fly. Everywhere he went, he was guarded carefully, lest there be an attempt on his life, or some other unforeseen danger. Nothing against his guards, of course. They were polite and kind people, who served him loyally, and wished to protect their emperor as best they could. They backed off when Phil commanded them too, but he could always still sense them with him, even when he travelled into the capital in disguise. They stayed in the shadows to watch him – he knew because a fight once broke out between drunken men in a tavern he was in, but before Phil could defend himself or leave, a guard was already there to lead him away. He was thankful, but felt smothered. 

And it wasn’t that he never left the palace. Phil still travelled, on occasion – overseas, to forgein lands he had hardly heard of, before – but never for adventure. In fact, he rarely had enough time for a walk, to clear his head after hours of meetings in stuffy rooms full of uncomfortable chairs, and insults hidden behind polite expressions and well-timed sips of tea. He often longed to escape off into the thick forests, stretch his wings and fly across oceans, but Phil cared too much for his nation to do that. And that was why his people loved him. 

Oh how his people loved him! Phil adored them as well, of course, deeply protective and incredibly loyal to the nation he had built from scratch. Their winged emperor, their angel of death who never once fell in battle, who led them through war and into times of prosperity. Though he longed to leave, he could never abandon them. The Antarctic Empire needed an heir. 

His first son was Technoblade, a piglin hybrid who had grown up winning illegal tournament deathmatches in the land of Hypixel. It was Phil who discovered them, and who stayed to help King Simon ransack them, freeing the prisoners and slaying the owners. Techno, the reigning champion, with a win streak in the thousands when he was hardly older than 17, was in the middle of a fight when he was interrupted. Without hesitation, he killed his opponent and turned on the next person he saw, sword flashing. The next person he saw happened to be Phil. 

Upon eye-contact with Technoblade, the voices in Philza’s head exploded in excitement. 

_Technoblade!_

_Technoblade whoooo_

_Technoblade never dies!_

_It’s Techno omg_

_Blood for the Blood God!_

_Technoblade is finally here!_

_I came here from Techno’s pov lmao_

_Blood for the Blood God_

_Hey Technoblade viewers_

_Techno Techno Techno_

And of course, the ever present battle cry of “KILLZA. KILLZA.” Phil ignored it easily as he saw his opponent also pause, tilting his head in confusion even as he forced his diamond blade against Phil’s netherite one. 

“Philza Minecraft,” he said, curiously. 

Phil pursed his lips, thought, and relaxed his grip on his sword, lowering it. To his mild surprise, the other man – the boy, really – didn’t make a single move to attack him now that his guard was down. “Technoblade,” Phil replied. 

“The voices don’t want blood anymore,” he noted, voice monotone. Then he squinted, hearing something that Phil couldn’t. “Well, some of them still do. But not yours. Who are you?” 

“The name’s Phil. Want to come with me?” His chat wasn’t chanting for death anymore, just repeating Technoblade’s name over and over. 

“Are you going to make me fight for you?” Techno asked curiously. Phil thought about it. 

“You won’t have to fight unless you want to, mate,” is what he settled on. “But I won’t make you, either way.”

The now-former gladiator looked at him, and sheathed his sword. “You seem interesting,” he seemingly decided. “Chat likes you. They’ve never liked anyone before. I’ll come.” 

Technoblade wouldn’t make a good emperor. He was too anxious for diplomatic meetings, would speak too soon and too bluntly to be a good politician. On occasion he would become so absorbed in his work that he wouldn’t eat or sleep for days on end, and other times he couldn’t sit still long enough to read a single sentence. At those times he marched into the training rooms, wooden sword in hand, and proceeded to beat Phil’s entire guard to a pulp. His entire guard. At the same time. His guards, who had been tasked with protecting the emperor specifically due to their proficiency at fighting. Once, Techno disappeared into Phil’s nether portal for nearly a full day, returning covered in blood and with a bag of ghast tears, blaze powder, and magma cream for Philza’s potioneers and medics. 

His chat, Philza learned, was far more bloodthirsty than his own, occasionally sending his son into a fugue state. He would return to the person he used to be in the arena, going for the blood of anyone in his vicinity. As he healed, and panic attacks lessened from daily to weekly to monthly, flashbacks becoming a thing of the past, Technoblade’s dissociated killing sprees lessened as well. Still, Philza preferred not to risk it. 

Before he even met his second son, Phil knew it was about to happen. He was visiting a university, needed to consult with this or that academic – about something scholarly, Phil was sure – but that was far from the most memorable part of his trip. As soon as he entered the library, his chat seemed to know something was about to happen – though what that something _was_ was indiscernible. At least it was until he approached the end of a bookshelf, and every single voice started chanting “ _dadza, dadza, dadza_ ” into his mental ear. 

When he turned the corner, the exhausted looking university student was already standing up, looking around. The man was older than Technoblade, but hardly – couldn’t be more than perhaps twenty. He wore a yellow sweater and wire rimmed glasses. His hair was mused, and the bags under his eyes were dark, and the eyes themselves Phil would’ve described as half-crazed. The books on the table read “Offerings for the Sky Gods”, “The Church of the Dome”, and “Void Hunger Throughout History”. 

_WILBUR!_ The voices cheered. “ _Soft toll boy! Insane crazy man! Welcome Wilbur Soot viewers pog! Less than three!_ ” 

“Wilbur Soot?” Phil had attempted. 

“Are you… Philza? Emperor of the Antarctic Empire?” Wilbur asked. “Emperor of the– shit.” he promptly took a step back, attempted a deep and proper bow, hit his head on the table, and passed out. 

Phil later learned, after bringing him to the school medic, that it was more from sleep deprivation than from an actual injury. He also learned that Wilbur was an unfortunate victim of that country’s foster care system – that he had nowhere to live, and had just about been lucky enough to score a scholarship with a college that was willing to give him free housing. His grades kept him in the school and thus off the streets, hence why he had been up studying for far too long. 

Once Will woke up, Phil offered him the same thing he had offered to Technoblade – a place in the palace, a say in Phil’s decisions, and every privilege that came with being a royal. And in the same way he had handed Technoblade a wooden sword and free reign of the training room, Philza handed Wilbur the key to the palace library and promised him access to every book he wanted, even if he decided he never wanted to read a single word again. 

With the encouragement of Phil’s chat, which Wilbur noted was talking to him, he accepted. Instead of reading words, Wilbur picked up a guitar and pages of sheet music to read notes instead. His singing echoed through the palace halls, distracting his brother as Techno sparred and giving Phil’s guards half a chance for once. 

Against all odds, Wilbur was an even worse choice for future emperor than Technoblade was. Though he eventually returned to more scholarly pursuits and became Phil’s most trusted advisor on the subject, Will preferred to weaponize academic tone rather than use it to inform. His siren of a son thought it was hilarious to convince people of things that were far from true, making up complex latin words on the spot, and citing studies that didn’t exist down to naming the exact date they were published. Wilbur was extremely knowledgeable, could pin down the country a photo was taken in with no context, but it was impossible to trust what he said (though Phil and Techno had the upper hand, as every time a handful of Wilbur’s “viewers” would appear amongst the chatter and snitch if Will was lying). 

Besides that, while Technoblade’s voices clamoured for blood and death and self-improvement in the very broad field of battle, Wilbur’s voices seemed to prompt him into religious insanity? Techno stuck to the Blood God and the Blood God only, his chat’s collective deity serving him well in battle. Wilbur, on the other hand, seemed to come down for breakfast with a new god to serve on his tongue every time – once, even a Mule of all things. Sometimes he simply went out to the garden and built the new god a shrine of sticks and stones. Once he spent the entire day digging a hole deeper than he was tall, and attempted to lure people inside. Occasionally Wilbur would fill with bloodlust, much as his brother would, and the two would spar for hours with blunt swords until first blood, the two returning for dinner covered in already-purpling bruises. 

Less than a year later, Phil found his last two children, the two boys thirteen and fourteen respectively. To them, the phrase “thick as thieves” could be applied both literally and figuratively, as they were, in fact, petty thieves. Their strategy was this: the thirteen year old, scruffy and blond and loud, would strike up a conversation with the shopkeep, his voice carrying and drawing the attention of every employee and every customer in the vicinity. He would annoy or joke, pretend to befriend or attempt to start a fight. In the meantime, the older, smaller boy, snuck by, fingers sneaking into wallets, and lockpicks sliding silently into the lock on the money drawer. Once finished, he collected his friend, expression innocent and soft, his mouth full of apologies, and his silver tongue flattering the unfortunate victim into letting them both leave with no trouble. 

Finally, Phil found himself the target of their shenanigans, and he chuckled as soon as the blond came up to him demanding what he was looking at. By then, he knew both the boys’ names. 

_Tommyinnit!!_

_Tommy!_

_Fucking finally we’ve been waiting for this_

_Pogchamp whooo_

_Little thief boi innit pog!_

_Big pog big pog big pog big pog_

_Tommyyyyy, big man!!!!_

“You, duh mate. Tommy, was it? Where’s your friend Tubbo, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere waiting for me to stop paying attention. Or perhaps his hands are already in my bag?” He caught the thin wrist just before it escaped, though the fingers let go of whatever they had taken before Phil could see what it was, and the object fell back into the recesses of his bag. 

“How d’you know our names, bitch?” Tommy asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “And why is everyone—” he clamped his mouth shut, and turned to Tubbo. 

“Dadza,” Tubbo said simply, looking up at him. Phil nodded in agreement and released his hand, letting Tubbo move to stand next to Tommy in front of him. 

Tommy frowned. “Ye, mine too. Who the hell are you?” 

“Name’s Philza, though I can’t say I’ve never heard ‘dadza’ before,” he answered with a grin. “Pretty sure I was the one who came up with it, in fact. You have the voices as well?” 

“Mm, yeah. Ghosts in me head,” Tommy said. “Tubbo too. We’re full a’ ghosts.” 

Phil raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve never heard them be called ghosts, but sure. What’re they saying?” 

“Meh. ‘ _Dadza, Dadza, Dadza, pogchamp, pogchamp, Dadza, Philza, steal from him, pog, pogchamp, he’s the emperor’_ , you know. Regular stuff.” Tommy shrugged, ignoring the wide-eyed looks Tubbo was giving him. “You know how chat is. Chat’s the ghosts, by the way.”

“Yes, I know that. Though I don’t believe chat is ghosts, mate.” The voices — chat — chimed in with cheerful agreement. 

“He’s the emperor, Tommy,” Tubbo whispered, nudging Tommy in the arm. “Emperor Philza, the winged survivor, the angel of death. _Tommy_.” 

Tommy shrugged again. “Prince Technoblade is way cooler.” 

Laughing, Phil offered both his hands to the boys. “Techno is very cool, yes. How about I take you two to meet him, and you can have dinner at the palace, hmm? On me? I have a good few extra rooms as well, if you would like to stay the night — of course you may share if you wish, but there’s plenty of space.” 

Fortunately, Tubbo Underscore was largely a sweet and quiet boy, and though his fingers were stickier than most, his other traits let him get away with it. The thing those fingers stuck to the most though was certainly Tommy. If alone, it was impossible to tell when Tubbo was coming and going — he stuck to the shadows on instinct, and his footsteps were silent on the clicky stone floors of the palace. Thankfully, the bell around his neck was his best friend, loud and bright and everywhere. If Tommy’s voice was heard echoing down the hallway, there was a good chance that Tubbo’s laugh wasn’t far behind. 

Tubbo’s chat wasn’t violent or anything either, though his quirk was a strange one. Occasionally the boy went quiet, eyes defocusing from the real world as he listened purely to what his voices had to say. Sometimes their advice had him turning in the middle of the hallways to go a different direction, or abruptly get up to pull Tommy into another room. He would switch personas at the drop of a hat, turning from an arrogant criminal mastermind into “Big Law”, a corrupt lawyer, in the blink of an eye. Tubbo, similarly to Wilbur, got caught up in strangeness sometimes, ranting about the Archives to a very tired Technoblade or a confused but laughing Tommy. 

Phil catalogued these quirks away, adjusting and getting used to each one, but still finding them a bit strange. After all, his own chat was nothing but supportive, cheering him on in battle and following his direction the rest of the time, with the occasional trick. Hearing a creeper hiss when nothing was there was fairly tame though, and the voices were all quite sweet about warning him when there was actual danger. 

Tommy was Phil’s youngest son, brash but charismatic, purposefully annoying and yet deeply affectionate. A fast learner — soon able to last as long in a spar against his older brother as all of Phil’s old guards combined (with Technoblade around, Philza hardly needed a personal guard anymore. With Tubbo, there was hardly anyone Phil needed guarding from). Wilbur taught him as much about the Old Gods as he did about bureaucracy, which was quite a bit of each. Though he never quite finagled how to speak it, preferring to be quite more straightforward, Tommy managed to understand every word of complicated documents, despite how much he complained that they were boring. 

And somehow, Tommy managed to have a grasp on his chat the way his brothers did not. He relayed it to Phil in a way that sounded oddly familiar: 

“Bastards are fuckin annoying a lot a’ the time, loud as shit and all, but I suppose they’re alright. Ye I’m talking ‘bout you, fellas. Learn to shut the fuck up once in a while.” 

There were no trances, no alter egos or glimpses of odd other-worlds. Just bursts of laughter and jokes he would repeat to anyone nearby, the occasional twitch towards a voice with no tangible body, and the knowing of who was about to enter the room as viewers drifted between them. 

Tommy would make an excellent emperor. He could be an excellent fighter, a charismatic diplomat, a firm ruler. He had a love and loyalty to the people from growing up on the streets of his own kingdom — towards the poor, towards the unwanted, and towards the kind. And besides that, he had the support and knowledge of his brothers by his side. 

Philza couldn’t wait to stretch his wings.


	2. The Heirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try to make family dinner a regular occurrence. Also, the Dream Team is in town.

Whenever Philza returned home — and he did so fairly regularly, annually now, flying in with the first winter storm before the weather would ruin his wings — Tommy threw feasts and celebrations to welcome his father back to the palace. The entire royal family would go down into the city and attend the days-long festivals, hardly recognizable wrapped in furs and cloaks just like everyone else. At least they were until, in some tavern, the oldest among them draped his cloak across a chair to reveal dove-grey wings, and the youngest’s hood fell and no longer hid the diamond crown in his golden hair. 

What the common people didn’t know was that even out of season, the old emperor was often in proximity to his family. There was no way, after all, to see him poring over papers with Wilbur, or sparring with Technoblade when the palace guards were tired out, or the way he taught Tubbo to change his posture from ordinary man to dignified royal and back. Nobody outside the family saw Tommy jump into his father’s arms when the back door opened just enough to let him through, with enough force to send Philza stumbling back and his crown go clattering across the floor. He would be scolded — “Be careful, mate! That thing is delicate!” — and they would both laugh. 

What the common people didn’t know was that after Philza had been flying beneath the waves, a dozen water breathing potions in his bag and sword at the ready — that after clearing temples and travelling through dimensions, Phil always returned home in time for dinner. 

Not like, a daily dinner. Rarely did even the palace residents eat together, what with half of them tending to skip meals and their schedules too conflicting to even be asleep at the same time, let alone eat. More often, Technoblade would sit alone at the dining table, a novel in one hand and spoon in the other. Wilbur would try to keep food off the pages of an important document, Tubbo bringing him dinner along with more piles of paperwork. Tubbo himself tended to simply stop by the kitchen, picking up the tray set out and leaving unnoticed. He and Tommy would eat together, sat on one of the palace’s wide window sills, plates balanced precariously in their laps. 

Family dinner happened something closer to once a week, carefully planned out so that not even the servants caught on. Tommy would leave his crown on his bed, and Wilbur slouched to hide his height. Even Technoblade switched out his royal blue cloak for a fur-lined red one, and pinned his long braids up into a crown to compensate for the weight of his gold one. 

“ _ Tubboooo _ ,” Tommy complained, struggling to reach the center of his back under the stiff, beetle-like wings that covered them. “ _ Please _ help me fasten my elytra, Tubbo, holy shit. Why are you actually so useless.” 

Tubbo suppressed a laugh watching his best friend try to twist his arms under the wings. “I’m the useless one? You can’t even put on your own elytra and you’re calling me useless?” He asked indignantly. “Wait a second, man.” 

“You are a bitch, Tubbo. You are— you are a bitch, and you are useless.” Tommy grappled with the harness for a few more moments, finally getting them to click and lock together. He tightened them with a grin, shrugging his shoulders a few times to make the gliders settle comfortably into place. “I don’t even need your help, see? Fuck you.” 

“Good job, Tommy,” Wilbur patted the top of his head condescendingly as he walked by, his own elytra already in place. He laughed as he dodged the younger’s hands, which swatted at him in protest. “You’re very talented.”

“Ye ye, fuck you too,” he grumbled. “Did Techno leave yet?” 

“I saw that Carl’s gone, so I’d assume so,” Wilbur told them. “We should probably leave soon as well, not make Phil and Tech wait up for us.” 

“Wilbur, do you know where I left my fireworks?” Tubbo asked. “There aren’t any more in my bag.” 

“Oh yeah, I stole ‘em, sorry.” Wilbur tossed him a bag of “fireworks”, the small explosives fitted to the inside of an elytra and essentially act like fuel – not quite like the festival rockets they had gotten their name from. “Here – that should be most of them.”

There was a slam as the balcony doors closed, and the two turned to see Tommy giving them a shit-eating grin as he stood on the balcony’s wide railing, hands full of fireworks and his elytra already opened. “LAST ONE THERE PAYS FOR DINNER!!” he shouted, muffled through the glass, before diving off the side. With a few puffs of white smoke as fireworks exploded behind him and a loud screech, Tommy quickly vanished into the sky. 

-=-=-=-

Family dinner, as previously mentioned, was an  _ event _ . 

Technoblade and Phil met up first, outside a small, family-run inn for adventurers. There were specialty pastries every day from the daughter (and Wilbur’s old college friend) Niki, and anyone who needed it could work for a meal and room rather than pay. The royal family was familiar with the workers and all the regulars; most of whom were adventurers or travellers who knew how to keep their mouths shut. Still, Phil’s wings were bound tight against his back and covered with a long cloak, and Techno wouldn’t take his hood off until they were seated in some back corner. 

The two shared a quick embrace – Phil liked to think that he didn’t play favorites, but Technoblade was the eldest son in everything but actual age – and quickly went inside to get out of the cold. They were quickly led to their usual table, and Niki handed them a few extra menus with a smile. 

“I’ll come take your orders when the others arrive?” she asked. Her hair had been dyed bright pink since the last time they’d seen her, a little over a week prior. 

“That sounds fine, thanks mate,” Phil agreed. Techno tilted his head in consideration. 

“I like your hair, Niki,” he said, and she giggled. 

“Thanks! It’s not as pastel as yours, but I have been liking it as well.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a smile. “Maybe I won’t re-dye it for a while and keep it a little lighter – then we’ll match!”

Techno shook his head, a huff of laughter coming from him as well. “Keep it a little lighter and Wilbur will start to think he isn’t the favorite brother anymore,” he told her. 

“Haha, that’s probably a good thing,” Niki said. “Can’t let Will’s ego get too big, now can we?” She retreated from their table to behind the counter with a smile and a wave. 

The door opened and Tubbo slipped inside, eyes darting around the room for half a second before pinning onto their table. He began to make his way over as a whoop sounded from outside, and Tubbo twitched before breaking into a sprint. Just as the door blew all the way open, letting in a whoosh of freezing cold air, Tubbo slid into the seat next to Phil with a grin. 

Wilbur physically drop-kicked Tommy away from the door, trying to make his way through with a teenager digging his heels in. Both were hollering at the top of their lungs and breathless with laughter, Tommy managing to actually pick Wilbur up with some amount of effort, though a kick to the shin had him dropping his older brother into the snow. With the flash of a firework, Tommy quite literally blasted through the door and over to his family, Wilbur following at a slightly more sedated pace with snow trapped and melting in his curly brown hair. 

“You little shit son of a bitch,” Wilbur said, flicking Tommy in the temple. He brushed his hand through his hair and smacked a handful of melting snow into Tommy’s face, sending his younger brother sputtering. 

“You know you two have the same father, right?” Techno deadpanned. 

“So Phil is a bitch?” Wilbur grinned, flopping down onto the bench next to Technoblade. “Eh, checks out.” 

“Hey!” Phil protested. “That’s the kind of attitude you’re gonna give the man who took you in?” 

Wilbur shrugged. “I probably would’ve been fine without you,” he said, and then winced. 

“Chat disagrees?” Tubbo laughed. 

“Ehh, just one or two of them,” he allowed. “Niki! Where is Niki Niyachu?”

“It’s Nihachu!” Niki protested, reappearing. “You  _ know _ it’s Nihachu, Will. Same as usual, everyone?”

There were glances around the table, and Phil nodded. “That sounds good, thanks Niki.” 

-=-=-=-

Later on in the evening, the plates had been cleared and a basket of pastries had been set in the center of their table. The door blew open again, two familiar laughs and one  _ distinctly  _ familiar wheeze reaching their table through the bustle of the other customers. Three men piled in through the door, nearly falling over themselves with mirth as they shook snow from hair and hoods. 

Dream spotted their table almost immediately, his mask strapped to his back instead of impeding his vision like usual, and pulled George closer to him and muttered something in his ear before coming over. Tommy saw George call Niki over to get a table before Dream got close enough to demand his complete attention. 

“Hey guys,” he greeted, and pulled a mocking sort of bow towards Tommy. “And child – listen, alright? Me, George, and Sapnap, we’ve been travelling around a lot recently. Haven’t been back to the capital for a few months, right?” 

Technoblade nodded. “Last I saw of you was that manhunt you held, a month or two back. Antfrost hit you with the damage pot.”

Dream scrunched up his face. “ _ Oh _ come on now, that was completely unfair. Don’t even remind me of that absolute  _ garbage _ . I’m holding another manhunt in a few weeks by the way, if you want to be the hunter? Or are you too scared?” he taunted. 

“Heh, I’m not scared. Just waiting for the right time. Besides, I know you’re itching for a rematch against your four buffoons,” Techno replied. “Get a little more training in – I’d prefer to actually have a challenge.” 

Tommy rapped his fingers on the table. “Did you actually have something important to say, or were you just going to pull this shit again?” he asked. “‘Blade always says no, I dunno why you keep asking.” 

“Yeah, okay. News.” Dream pursed his lips, straightening from the table as if about to give an official report. Of course, he did no such thing. “Well, you see, I’ve been officially invited to perform a coup. A rebellion, if you will. Or a betrayal, if you see it that way.”

“A WHAT!?” Phil shouted, before quickly lowering his voice. “Tommy’s been doing a great job as emperor – a  _ coup _ ? You declined, right mate?” 

“Why would he ask  _ you _ ?” Tubbo questioned. “Your entire team is quite good friends with all of us, even if you don’t hang around the capital all too often. And I suppose it isn’t exactly public knowledge, since we don’t invite you up to the palace or anything.” He trailed off into thought. 

“Well, actually I told the guy I’d consider it.” Dream answered Phil’s question first, and put a hand up before the former emperor could explode. “Wait, think about it, right? In this guy’s eyes–”

“You and me, we’re known rivals,” Techno interrupted, chasing his own train of thought. Dream nodded. “People see us fightin’ and mockin’ each other all the time in public, and without knowing that we train together and so on as well, as friends…”

“You could see how they’d get the wrong idea,” Dream agreed. “And besides, I haven’t been around since the coronation, but when Tommy was still the prince we’d fight all the time too. So I was thinking, we could join, get some names and info out of it, and if Tubbo happened to be nearby, I don’t see why we wouldn’t repeat those names in a few choice locations.” 

Wilbur huffed out a laugh. “Our spy on the inside.” 

Dream shrugged. “Sure. I’ve talked to the team, they’re all willing to go along with it,” he told them. “We’ll be in town for a few more weeks, maybe. Until this storm dies down and we can find a ship willing to take us, at least. Think about it.”

“Ye, we will,” Tommy said. “Now leave, you’re impeding on family dinner.”

Dream wheezed, and ruffled Tommy’s hair, much to his displeasure. “Yeah yeah, I’m going.”

Phil sighed and leaned over to shake Dream’s hand. “Thanks for the info, mate. Enjoy your meal.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in Crown, I'm not putting any priority on writing for this series, so get invested at your own risk I guess. There's a plot now though, look! 
> 
> Anyways, I'm participating in the DreamSMP Big Bang event as both a writer and a beta during these coming three or so months, so there's little to no chance of me working on this, sorry. Just wanted to get this chapter out before the event really kicked off! 
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment, they're highly appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh, I ended up writing more of this Faster Than I Thought I Would... :3 We’ll return to our regularly scheduled Tommyinnit-centric-ness in the next part of this series, if/when it appears. 
> 
> please leave kudos and drop me a comment! I write because I like to, but comments are a big motivator for me to work on a specific story, so if you liked this I'd love to hear it <3


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